


the dust behind you

by vaudelin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Alternate Universe - Canon, Domestic Squabbling, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Touching, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Injured Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Tarot: A DeanCas Anthology (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27658123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin
Summary: Sam sighed behind him. “You fucked up.”“I know. Buthow?” Dean wheeled around, huffing. “What’s his problem anyway? Is he mad he didn’t get tossed around by some psycho schoolteacher?”“I dunno, but I’m not spending the drive home with you two fighting. Fix it,” Sam said, shrugging his way out of the backseat with his bag in hand. The door slammed shut behind him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 269





	the dust behind you

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the 2018 DeanCas Tarot Anthology, a gorgeous book filled with talented people.
> 
> Sharing it today in hopes it might bring people a smile, now that the show is over 🖤

The cemetery crawled its way out from the trees, toward the road, while the older graves remained buried in the back brush, crowded in by pines and poplars and the scrub that grew between. They found Maggie Rauch’s grave in such an alcove, its marker knocked askew by a staunch maple that had taken root decades ago. The night was dark, the air thick with rain.

The downside of graves this old was that the conventional six-foot burial was not always strictly followed. Dean’s back ached from the four feet he’d dug already, and took to throbbing while he and Sam trenched down another four. Shirts were soaked and jeans were caked with mud by time their shovels splintered the lid of Rauch’s rotting casket. They had just doused the grave in gas and salt when old Maggie’s spirit reared up a final time and threw Dean clear across the cemetery, slamming him head-first into a crumbling stone monument before fizzling out for good.

“Every damn time,” Dean grumbled from his spot on the ground, wiping rainwater from his eyes. He struggled upright, swiping his hands ineffectively against his jeans. He collected the shovel fragments from where he’d snapped it swinging at Maggie, grimacing at the blisters forming on his pruney palms. He did not look forward to backfilling this mudpit.

Dean limped back to where Sam was breathing heavily, glaring down at the sputtering flames. 

“You alright?” Sam eyed him over, his gaze snagging on some spot above Dean’s brow.

Dean scrubbed at where he felt Sam’s focus but only felt more rain. His whole body ached, but what else was new. “Yeah, fine. Just ready for this bitch to burn.”

The woods rustled suddenly, branches snapping above the rain, and a flashlight bobbed between the trees. Dean cursed, wondering who could have spotted them—the grave was deep in the trees, but the cemetery itself ran close to a major highway. This time of night, the local cops might’ve taken an interest in whoever parked an Impala alongside cemetery row.

Dean ducked with Sam behind the nearest tree. They met each other’s eye, made signals about which direction to run, when the goofy yellow poncho carrying the flashlight called out Dean’s name. 

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean growled back. The flashlight swung in their direction, and Dean caught a searing eyeful of the beam. He held up his hands until Cas dropped his angle to the ground. “What are you doing out here? Thought we said to wait in the car.”

“You were taking a long time.” Cas frowned at Dean, squinting out from beneath his hood. “You’re injured. Did something happen?”

“Yeah, well.” Dean gestured skyward, exposing his face to the onslaught of the storm. “What else would we expect.”

“So you found the grave?”

“Found her, burned her.” Sam stuck his shovel into the mound of mud. “Just need to bury her again.”

Dean glanced over Cas more closely, eyeing the flashlight cradled in his bad elbow, the tire iron gripped in his good hand. He circled Cas’ bad side, confirming that the flimsy poncho fully protected Cas’ cast from the rain.

Cas rounded his flashlight on Dean, likewise scrutinizing. Whatever he saw had him awkwardly transferring the tire iron beneath the poncho, and then reaching out for Dean with his good hand, his middle and index fingers extended.

“Whoa,” Dean said, flinching back, then wincing at himself. “Didn’t think you could do that anymore, buddy.”

“No,” Cas mumbled, “I suppose not.” He dropped his hand, righting the flashlight back onto Dean’s face. “Are you okay?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Question of the night, apparently.” He slapped the beam away. “I’m fine. Look, three fingers, alright?” Dean held up two, just to be an ass. He glanced over to Sam, watching his brother dump the last of their jerrycan into Rauch’s grave. “She crispy yet?”

“Done and gone,” Sam called back. “Just making sure.”

“Fine.” Dean sloshed through the puddles toward the grave. He toed his boot against the bits of broken handle. “My shovel’s dead. Think the shed at the entrance has a spare?”

“I’ll help dig,” Cas offered, stepping after him.

“What, with that chicken wing?” Dean smiled and nudged Cas’ bad arm with his shoulder. “Just get in the car. I wouldn’t trust that two-dollar poncho to stand up much longer beneath this rain.”

Cas’ reaction was hidden from him, but Dean felt the joke fall flat without needing to see his face. He turned to Cas regardless, hoping to catch his eye, to show Cas in some unspoken way that he shouldn’t take his injury so seriously. Humans broke their bones all the time; Cas was no different, now. But Cas already had his head down and flashlight bowed, heading back to the car as instructed, and Dean was left feeling vaguely guilty, lingering in the rain.

Cas was still sullen by time they made their way back to him, sitting slumped in the passenger seat. He had swapped out the tire iron for his phone, at least, gripping the burner like Dean might really need to call him for backup from a quarter-mile away. He still wore that stupid poncho with the hood drawn up, his face sweaty from the muggy air inside of the car. It had to be uncomfortable, but Cas gave no indication of feeling anything as Dean climbed in.

“Don’t go dripping on the upholstery,” Dean mock-groused as he turned the ignition, throwing a wink Cas failed to catch.

Cas turned toward him, a look of condescension briefly contorting his otherwise blank face. His gaze flickered over the mud covering Dean, then drifted away without comment. Residual rainwater dripped down from his shoulders. He continued to fiddle with the phone in his good hand.

Impulsively, Dean lifted the edge of Cas’ poncho, high enough to reassure himself that Cas’ cast was still dry. Cas gave him a dark look and immediately sidled out of reach, turning to face the rain streaming down his window.

Sam’s shadow crossed the headlights, catching Dean’s attention. He thumped into the backseat and shook out his hair, carding his fingers through limp bangs. “Alright, the gate’s locked up. Let’s get back to the room. I call dibs on the first shower.”

“Sounds good, princess.” Dean reversed the Impala and angled his way through a k-turn, edging them back up the dirt road toward the highway.

The drive passed in silence, stuffy with the same uncomfortable funk they had suffered before. Dean fiddled with the wipers, glancing between the road and the passenger seat, then back to the rearview mirror. Sam exchanged increasingly bewildered looks with him, all of which nudged Dean toward talking with Cas.

Dean cleared his throat, fished around for something to say. “You did good, putting us on this case. A spirit like that could’ve turned nasty real quick.”

Dean chanced a glance at Cas only to find him glowering out from beneath the rim of his hood. Dean huffed, wiped at a tacky bead of moisture on his face. “I mean it. That bitch tossed me twenty feet, easy. Would hate to see what she’s like on a bad day.”

“Sam was the one who found the case,” Cas grumbled.

“But you found the cemetery,” Sam added, so hastily Dean rolled his eyes.

Cas grunted and returned to staring out the side window.

Dean took them down the service road into the motel parking lot, still searching for something more to say. He wanted to delay the inevitable awkward night barrelling toward them—maybe he could grab them some takeout, or pick up another pack of beer. Cas, however, beat him to the punch. 

“Sam, could I exchange room keys with you for the night?”

Dean scowled at Cas, then turned in time to catch Sam’s frown. 

“Sorry—d’you want to bunk alone?” Sam asked.

“Please.” Cas stubbornly avoided Dean’s eye until Sam dropped the key into his open hand, at which point Cas shot Dean a cold glare and climbed out without a further word. 

Dean watched the rain claim Cas. He ran a thumb over his lips, chewed his cheeks. Shook his head. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam sighed behind him. “You fucked up.”

“I know. But _how_?” Dean wheeled around, huffing. “What’s his problem anyway? Is he mad he didn’t get tossed around by some psycho schoolteacher?”

“I dunno, but I’m not spending the drive home with you two fighting. Fix it,” Sam said, shrugging his way out of the backseat with his bag in hand. The door slammed shut behind him.

Dean sat in the suddenly vacated car, churning through anger and irritation until the humidity became too much to bear. He then gathered the remaining bags from the backseat and hauled his aching body inside.

Sam, true to his word, stole the first shower, leaving Dean shivering and dripping on the faded maroon carpet. Beige walls and bleached sheets fit their price range, the only colors in the room stemming from the hot pink comforters and chocolate brown headboards adorning each bed. Dean threw his bags atop the table, stripping his clothes as he winced his way over to the kitchenette sink.

When Dean towelled off his face with his shirt, the henley pulled back a bloody red. A glance in the mirror revealed a thick cut bleeding sluggishly between his brow and hairline, the welt set like a feverish slice amid the bruises on his face, above an eye socket already deepening to sickly purple hues.

Alright, so maybe Dean hadn’t looked too good when Cas found him. Maybe Cas was miffed that his injuries got him sidelined while Dean’s own got swept away. 

Dean shook his head and fished through his bag for clean clothes. When he didn’t find his favorite shirt he moved onto the bag he and Cas sometimes shared, the one with the communal clothes pile and the toiletries of Dean’s that Cas had come to claim. Dean happened across the shower sleeves he had bought for Cas, nothing more than a five-pack of fancy plastic bags Dean had splurged on to help keep his cast dry.

It hit Dean then that Cas was probably sitting alone in his own room, having only just realized that he’d missed out on grabbing his supplies but too stubborn to come over and ask for them, even if he needed a toothbrush and a change of clothes before the night’s end.

Dean pictured Cas trying to shower on his own—pulling off one of those oversized shortsleeves they’d bought him just so Cas would stop ruining Dean’s own shirts for the duration of his downtime—all the while struggling to keep his arm out of the spray.

“Shit,” Dean said into the empty room. He zipped shut both duffel bags and threw them over one shoulder, then picked through Sam’s pile for the second room’s spare key. 

The blinds were drawn in Cas’ room when Dean made his way over. Dean knocked and, with no answer, promptly entered. A sliver of light spilled out from the back bathroom, the room’s only illumination. Dean padded his way over. The door swung open on his fingertips.

Cas sat slumped on the closed lid of the toilet, his good hand holding up his head, his long fingers buried in his hair. His jeans were off, his broken arm resting across his bare knees. The tub burbled as it filled beside him, clouding the room with steam.

Dean dropped the duffel bags onto the tiles. “Thought you preferred showering.”

Cas shrugged. He waved his stiff arm limply toward the tub. “My options are currently limited.”

Dean scrubbed his face, sighing. He knelt down, hoping to catch Cas’ attention, but Cas was staring down with those mournful eyes, drifting and aimless. His good hand slid down to the shitty drawing Dean had doodled on his inner forearm—some rusty replica of the Continental, its tailpipe puffing ink-clouds into the crook of Cas’ elbow. 

Dean had drawn it sometime after their long haul through the emergency room, after spending hours distracting Cas as best he could, telling stories about all the bad breaks he and Sam had accrued between them over the years. Cas had flashed pallid smiles and squeezed Dean’s hand whenever his pain had spiked, and when Cas had finally succumbed to exhaustion Dean had drawn him in tight, keeping him close while a restless energy kept Dean himself awake.

Dean had sat the whole night with his palm sweating against Cas’ good hand, pretending it meant nothing, that this was something he would do for just anybody.

The look of Cas now brought Dean back to that waiting room, to how Cas had looked beneath those flickering fluorescent lights: fragile and small, inconsolably human; ageless and endless and incapable of comprehending how any arm could be broken, let alone his.

Dean rose to height, steadied only by the fact that he didn’t want Cas to be alone. He moved in slowly, ready for rejection, crowding in until Cas’ forehead gently bumped against his hip.

When Cas didn’t withdraw, Dean touched a hand to his shoulder, rubbing soft circles. The tub frothed in the silence between them.

Finally Cas sagged against him. In a thick voice, he dropped a dull question to the tile floor. “Does it get easier. Feeling this…”

“Tired?” Dean guessed.

“Useless.”

Dean cracked a weak smile. “Who, you or me?”

Cas shook his head, his brow burrowing into Dean’s hip. 

Dean swallowed around an uneasy feeling. His fingers found Cas’ hair. “D’you… I mean, I know becoming human wasn’t the plan, but d’you—”

Cas pulled back on a heavy breath. He frowned up at Dean. “No, I could never regret it. Only—” His hand lifted to Dean’s brow. Fingertips danced along the bruises. “I used to be able to help you.”

Oh.

Dean seated himself along the tub, reached behind to shut off the water. He touched his knees, second-guessing, then reached for Cas, hooking a hand around the back of his neck, curving him in until their foreheads pressed together. 

He waited for Cas. Softening. Just breathing. 

Then he hooked a finger into Cas’ collar and tugged it up the back of his neck. “C’mon. Tub’s getting cold.”

Cas smiled, small but sincere. Dean ducked his head, unable to embrace its warmth. He distracted himself by grabbing the duffel bag, fishing out a shower sleeve from it. Cas pulled it on, then openly stared as Dean began to undress.

Dean shrugged, all false bravado. Despite his growing blush, he managed to casually say, “Sam’s used all our hot water by now. You don’t mind sharing, do you?”

Cas, his smile growing, shook his head. Dean took the incentive and helped Cas up, let him crowd in close. Cas touched his fingers, then his lips, to the cut on Dean’s forehead. “That’s something I can do.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://vaudelin.tumblr.com).


End file.
